


The Sleepless Nights of Skinny Love

by thehotinpsychotic



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-17 13:12:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1388947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehotinpsychotic/pseuds/thehotinpsychotic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks so much for reading! Please comment, and leave a kudos if you enjoyed it! I'll try to update soon. </p><p>My Tumblr: www.varsity-frank.tumblr.com</p>
        </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I’ll take a rum and coke,” my customer, this guy named Mikey, orders.  
Mikey is here a lot. This is why I know his name. He doesn’t know I know his name, but I do. Even I can’t remember how I learnt it; I’m assuming I picked it up somewhere. Mikey comes about two or three times a week, and he always drinks himself to the point I have to stop him and call him a cab. And every single time, he smiles at me, and seems so grateful, even with puke dried to his shirt and eyes droopy and glazed.  
I worry about Mikey a lot. He always comes here with a frown on his face, and that frown doesn’t vacate until a variety of mixed drinks pulls it out of him. I wish I could ask him what’s wrong, tell him everything’s alright.  
But I’m just his bartender, and nothing more to him. Even if social standards shifted and allowed me to give him any advice or condolences, I doubt he’d want them.  
“Okay.” I write the drink down on the pad before going to make it, calling over my shoulder to Mikey, “I’ll be right back.”  
I hear the door ding itself open, and my reflex is to immediately turn to see who’d entered. I must say, I am tempted, but I manage not to and focus on making the drink. I hand it to Mikey, and am taken aback by the breathtaking stranger sitting next to the regular customer.  
The first thing I notice about the newcomer is that he’s wearing makeup. This strikes me as odd; although I’ve heard of it, I’ve never really seen a guy with eyeliner. The makeup is a dark charcoal, and contrasts to the point it almost clashes with his darkhazel eyes. I’ve always considered myself an individual, which is hard to come by in the state of California, but I would never have the audacity… no, bravery, to parade around in Loreal Paris Back In Black eyeliner. His skin is pale to the point that I wonder if he’s from around here. After all, it’s incredibly hot here. Surely he can’t be from here. Fair skinned people are not indigenous to California.  
He’s wearing a Smiths concert t shirt, and the sleeves are cut off, revealing toned arms. With this he wears skin tight jeans, even though it’s easily 75 degrees outside. He runs a hand through his mangled raven locks all swept to the side. He looks exhausted, like the kind of tired that makes it so he could fall asleep at any given second. His eyelids flutter with the effort to stay open. His eyes dart around the bar, catching me and holding for a second before he grins, and then he looks back to Mikey, who has been speaking to the stranger the entire time.  
The man answers Mikey briefly, and even in the short sentence, I can hear the lilt in hisvoice that I can only assume to be permanent. It has a boyish tone to it, as if he’s actually a freshman or eighth grader. I suppose it’s like mine in this way; not quite deep enough or smooth enough to be considered a man’s voice.  
The man turns to me, and asks, still smiling, “Can I have a kamikaze shot?”  
“No problem,” I answer, heading off to make it. I’m about to go when Mikey nudges me with some money.  
I accept it, and can’t help but sound surprised as I ask, “That’s all you’re having?”  
Mikey goes a bit pink, and I realize what I had implied. I feel bad, but get over it when he replies with, “Yeah. I’m trying not to drink so much. So, you won’t be seeing me in here so often anymore.”  
“Good for you,” I tell honestly, and I go to ring up Mikey. I hide the sadness aching in my bones, because I’ve always liked him, and he probably won’t be coming around anymore. I’ve always had a hard time with goodbyes, and an even harder time without them. I really should have a moment with Mikey, but I know I won’t, mainly because I’d feel like an oversentimental fool.  
I hand Mikey his change, and then make the stranger’s kamikaze. When I return with it, he rubs his hands together eagerly. He downs it as soon as I set it down, licks his lips, and then turns to Mikey, questioning, “So are you leaving soon?”  
“I’m leaving now,” Mikey responds, sliding into his jacket. He puts two dollars on the bar, telling,  
“Thank you, Frank.”  
My brows furrow as I ask, “You know my name?”  
“After all you’ve done for me, how could I not?” Mikey reasons.  
Mikey takes off, leaving the stranger and I alone. The stranger sits there rapping his knuckles against the wooden bar top loudly and swiveling in his barstool. I gaze out at the other customers, making sure they don’t need drinks or food or anything. The stranger begins,  
“So, your name is Frank?”  
“Yeah. What about it?” I reply.  
“Frank… like from Donnie Darko?” the stranger smirks.  
I sigh, fawning sarcastically, “Omg I’ve never heard that before. You’re so original.”  
The grin stays on the stranger’s face, which is strange, seeing as I just insulted him. “Frank’s kind of a shitty name, don’t you think?”  
“How would that be a shitty name?” I ask genuinely. I’ve always liked the name Frank. I never considered naming any of my future kids Frank, but I would love it if someone else named theirs this.  
He shrugs, taking one of the peanuts out of the small bowlful and popping the entire thing into his mouth, stringy shell and all. “It’s another name for a hot dog.”  
I can’t repressmy smile, and return, “Okay, Mr. Know It All. Just what is your name?”  
“Gerard,” the stranger shares.  
“What if I were to say your name’s shittier than mine?” I challenge.  
“Interesting scenario, Mr. Bartender,” Gerard compliments. “But I doubt you would say that.”  
“Why wouldn’t I?”  
“My name is the word ‘spear’ combined with the word ‘brave’,” Gerard answers, as if this is commonly in the first grade curriculum. He leans in, adding, “In other words, it’s kinda one of the raddest names there ever was.”  
I don’t have a comeback, even though I want to get the conversation going. I’ve always liked confrontations like these, not because I’m aggressive, but because I love to debate. I busy myself with the tap, fiddling with the handle.  
“I think I’ll eat here,” Gerard decides. He looks around the behind the bar area, and then asks me, “Can I have a menu?”  
I grab one to my left and hand it to him, and in under a second he claims,  
“Fries sound really fucking good right now. I want some fries.”  
“Sounds good,” I mutter, adding it onto his ticket.  
Gerard glances up at me, and when he finds me looking right back, his eyes quickly flash back to his menu. “When are you off?” He thumbs the rim of his empty shot glass with what appears to be nerves.  
“Like 1:00 a.m. Why?”  
“I dunno. Do you… if I came back here at like 12:30, do you want to hang out with me after?” Gerard offers. “You know,you’re friends with my brother apparently, s-so I should get to know you.”  
“Sure,” I agree, and I’m not sure why. No man has ever arranged a hangout session in this way, especially one I have just met. This man, I hardly know him. He’s Mikey’s brother, so some would argue that this is enough to base whether Gerard is a good guy or not. However, who’s to say that Mikey even likes him?  
There’s no guarantee that going with Gerard will be enjoyable, worth the effort, or even safe. Yet, when Gerard returns at 12:50, I close up and then head out with him into the cool summer evening.


	2. Chapter 2

We get into Gerard’s car, a shitty little grey car that’s a host for rust. Upon entering the vehicle, the inside is even worse. Various trash, clothing, and random possessions litter the floor and backseats. Gerard clears a McDonald’s bag and a backpack, throwing them into the back, and gestures towards the passenger seat. I sit down, and Gerard follows, not thinking to put on his seatbelt as he pulls off towards his home.  
We arrive soon at an apartment complex. Gerard parks in the attached lot and saunters slowly to the building, myself close behind.  
Gerard’s apartment is on the fourth floor, and he is panting by the time he climbs all of the stairs. He coughs and pounds on his chest with his fist, wheezing,  
“I’ve got to quit smoking.”  
“Me too,” I agree, my head light and mouth dry.  
He pulls his keys out of his pocket, fumbling them to the floor while trying to find the right one. We both bend over and reach for them, his icy hand clasping over mine.  
Gerard blushes even more than I do, and withdraws his hand as if I’d burned him. I hand him his keys, and he mutters a thanks as he opens the door.  
“Sorry if it’s not very neat. It’s been a crazy couple of weeks.”  
I step in, to see Gerard’s living room. It’s a large area, with a cushiony blue couch on the far end. Right to my left is a litter box, so there must be a cat somewhere. There’s an alarmingly large bookcase that could kill twelve men if it fell over, but it’s not just filled with books, but also action figures, board games, and a stuffed caterpillar. His game console is a Gamecube, and it lay on the floor with the controller attached.  
I walk in further, passing the coffee table, which has Playboys casually strewn out across it and an old mug of half drunken coffee.  
Gerard removes his jacket, tossing it on the couch. He steps out of his shoes and looks around as if he’s searching for something.  
“Missing something?” I question, examining his bookcase. I read the various titles,  _Rats Saw God, 1984,_  and  _A Clockwork Orange,_  among others _._  I classify his book taste as intriguing, and instead of evaluating more fine literature I inspect an even finer redhead in a random issue of Playboy. I set the magazine back down, to see Gerard in the attached kitchen, looking under the table.  
“Just wondering where my cat is,” Gerard answers. “Vladimir!”  
I snort. “You say my name is shitty, but you name your cat Vladimir?”  
Gerard doesn’t take offense to this, but just seems genuinely confused. “He’s Russian.”  
A soft pinging of a bell indicates a house cat, Gerard’s to be specific, rubbing its head up against my leg, wrapping itself around me practically.  
“He likes you,” Gerard informs. “He doesn’t like many people. He’s kind of like me that way.”  
I can’t help but notice that I must be part of a slim selection of people Gerard enjoys being around. I take it as a compliment, even though some wouldn’t want the friendship of a cynical, antisocial strange man.  
“Do you want a drink?” Gerard offers, pulling a bottle of white wine from his kitchen cabinet.  
“I’m actually 20, so…. Yes,” I respond. “As long as you’re okay with that.”  
“I’d rather you get your illegal beverages here where someone can keep an eye on you rather than by yourself,” Gerard reasons, pouring two glasses.  
I stride over, Vladimir at my heels. I take a sip from my wine, and Gerard picks his cat up and cuddles it, hugging it and planting a kiss on top of its forehead before setting it back down.  
“It’s weird to see you… affectionate,” I tell honestly.  
“Frank, you gotta know something about me,” Gerard begins. He takes a gulp of his wine, and proceeds, “I care exclusively about three things in this God forsaken world. And those three things are Mikey, the future investments of Playboy, and Vladimir.”  
I raise an eyebrow. “The future investments of Playboy?”  
“Great company. It’d be a shame to see them throw their money away,” Gerard retorts.  
I chuckle and take another drink, setting out and wandering some more.  
“You’re welcome to explore a bit,” Gerard calls. “It’s a small place, so it shouldn’t take long to grow accustomed to it.”  
I find what can only be Gerard’s bedroom. It’s actually impeccably tidy, the Star Wars bed set made, the floor clean, and his desk organized. He has a loft bed, and his desk, covered in drawing supplies, is tucked underneath. A blue cat bed sits at the foot of the desk, and a teddy bear is the only thing besides the bedding to sit on the mattress. He has a crate in one corner, which I walk over to see what it contains. It’s full of movies, including, but not limited to, all of the Lord of the Rings series, all of the Star Wars saga, and a large selection of horror films. I lift the crate and return to the living room, where Gerard is sat on the couch, glass of wine in hand, Vladimir in his lap. I sit next to him, begging,  
“Can we watch some of these? I’ve been dying to see some of them.”  
Gerard grins, and tries to hide it behind another drink of wine. “Whatever you want.”  
I stand, popping Audition into the DVD tray. I begin, “Can I ask you a personal question, Gerard?”  
“Shoot,” Gerard approves.  
“You’re at least 21, and even older if you’re Mikey’s bigger sibling. So why is it that you still have a teddy bear on your bed?” I tease.  
“Frank, my father gave me that. He died, and it’s all I have left of him,” Gerard informs, his voice cracking.  
I turn around, apologizing, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”  
Gerard nods, takes another sip of wine, and then laughs, “I’m just fucking with you Frankie, but don’t make fun of me in my own home. It’s from my father, but he’s alive. I am sentimental about it, though.”  
“Here comes the real question,” I preview. “Do you sleep with it?”  
“You can’t ask a lady that,” Gerard tsks, polishing off his glass of wine.  
I start the movie, hurrying back over to the couch to sit and grab my drink.  
“This is nice,” Gerard sighs.  
“The movie?” I question.  
“No,” Gerard replies. “Company.”  
Gerard and I talk as the credits roll, and the Fox and the Hound goes in next. The last thing I remember before falling asleep is the badger being angry at the fox.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please comment, and leave a kudos if you enjoyed it! I'll try to update soon. 
> 
> My Tumblr: www.varsity-frank.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

            I wake up to the smell of pancakes and bacon. I look around, to realize that Gerard is no longer on the couch with me and Vladimir is curled up at my side. I gaze towards the kitchen, to see Gerard wearing a red apron and flipping pancakes. The familiar sound of the Smiths floods my ears, and within seconds I can recognize what song’s playing and which lyric comes next.

            I lift Vladimir and set him on the floor so I don’t roll him over as I stand. I sit up, and push myself to my feet, wandering to the kitchen sleepily. I sit down at the table, to see that it’s 1:00 in the afternoon.

            “Good morning, sleepy head,” Gerard greets. He slips his spatula beneath a pancake and sets it on a plate, which he hands to me.

            “Morning,” I yawn. “How long have you been up?”

            Gerard shrugs. “Not that long. You know, since like 10:00.”

            My mouth drops open. We went to bed past 3:00 last night; how can he possibly get up that early?

            “Do you want some coffee?” Gerard offers. “You can look at all the types I have.”

            I look over the coffee machine, and slowly rise, walking over. I sort through the bags, finding a Pumpkin Spice. I begin making it, and behind me, I can hear Gerard singing softly along with the music. He sets himself down at the table, putting a napkin in his lap. He does the sign of the cross on his forehead and shoulders and then presses his head into his folded hands. After about 20 seconds, he resurfaces, cutting apart his pancake.

            “You’re religious?” I question, sitting down. I shovel a forkful of pancake into my mouth, which, honestly, isn’t that good. I don’t have the heart to tell Gerard I don’t like it, so I drown the offending breakfast in syrup in order to choke it down.

            “Devoutly so,” Gerard answers. “That’s actually why I was up at 10:00; I went to church at 10:30.”

            “Never would have pegged you that way,” I admit.

            Gerard smirks, taking a bite of bacon. “So what, Christians have to be lame? They can’t like horror movies or bars or smoking?”

            The only Christian I knew in my cluttered, high crime childhood neighborhood was my aunt. She would always be so quiet, so prim, wearing nice sundresses even in the dead of Jersey winter. She had a hard life, my aunt. All that praying never really got her anywhere. She ended up trying to kill herself with over the counter pain medication, which fried her liver and killed her slowly over the course of a few months. I guess that God wasn’t quite as devoted to their relationship as she was. My aunt was a sad woman with a warm smile. And I know that she would never watch a horror movie, never step foot in a bar, and never press a cigarette to her lips.

            “I guess that’s my image of a Christian, yeah,” I tell.

            Gerard smiles, and reaches across the table, grabbing my coffee mug. He takes a long drink before setting it back next to me, and continues to eat as if he hadn’t just soiled my drink. “I’m Catholic, which is actually one of the strictest branches of Christianity. You know, it’s Lent.”

            “What did you give up?” I ask.

            “Absolutely nothing,” Gerard answers honestly. “I mean, while I had _a lot_ of things I shouldn’t do as a Christian, I couldn’t bring myself to stop any of them. I probably should’ve quit smoking, but it calms my nerves. I could’ve stopped drinking, but it makes me happy. I definitely should’ve given up in my taking of various medications prescribed to anyone but myself, but they keep me in control. You know?”

            I don’t say anything, and Gerard takes this as a prompt to speak some more. “Not all Christians are perfect. I hate that stereotype. Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.” He thumbs the edge of his own glass. “But sometimes I wonder if the sinner dies before they reach their future.”

            I sit there quietly, not sure how to comfort him. I push my coffee towards him, saying, “You can have the rest of this, if you want.”

            Gerard chuckles, and slides the mug back to me. “It’s yours.” He stands, scraping off his extra food into a Tupperware container, which goes into the fridge. He sets his dishes in the sink, and I’m amazed at how the apartment is so tidy yet doesn’t have a dishwasher.

            I sit there, questioning, “Why are you a Catholic?”

            “If you’re talking definitions, it’s because I follow the religion of Catholicism,” Gerard replies.

            “No, like, why would you choose that?” I paraphrase. “Please don’t be offended, but why would anyone want to be a member of any religion? Isn’t it just a whole set of rules, rules that if you don’t follow, you’re pegged as a bad person? And what’s all this business with waking up early on your weekend?”

            Gerard actually laughs, and answers, “I dunno. I guess I like the idea that we can all be saved. That God cares about us no matter what, and how Jesus was willing to die for us to be able to fuck up. It’s nice to be a part of something, especially when you’ve been secluded for most of your life.”

            “Should I be a Catholic?” I wonder.

            “I can’t make that decision for you,” Gerard points out. “You have to show an interest in your relationship with God.”

            “I have a relationship with Him?” I ask. “I’ve never prayed, never went to church, I’ve sinned, and I haven’t even really believed Him.”

            “God loves all of his children,” Gerard answers.

            “Why? They don’t always love Him back,” I reason.

            “I feel like it’s because he made them, and he wants to give them all their best chance of eternal life. He doesn’t care you don’t believe him, because he loves you, and he only wants what’s best for you,” Gerard retorts. “It’s why good things happen to bad people. God doesn’t go around smiting the unjust. He gives them a lifetime of second chances, which are rare on this Earth.”

            “Would he give me a second chance?”

            “Always,” Gerard assures. He takes my empty plate, setting it into the sink. “Now Frank, I tell you that God grants everyone second chances. What makes you think whatever you did or are is so horrible that you’re exempt from this rule?”

            I can’t answer him, because I know that he’d hate me for it. “Just wondering.”

            Gerard grins at me, and asks, “Would you like to go to church with me next Sunday? Anyone’s welcome.”

            I consider this. Is God really what I need? Will He really forgive me? “I guess I can give it a shot.”

            Gerard hugs me, promising me, “Frank, you won’t look back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please comment, and leave a kudos if you enjoyed it! I'll try to update soon. 
> 
> My Tumblr: www.varsity-frank.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

I do my research before going to church on Sunday with Gerard. I have one single thing on my mind, and no, it’s not if God will want me, it’s not if the perish will accept me, but it’s what I should wear.

            It sounds shallow when you think about it, but really, I don’t want to come in underdressed, and I certainly don’t want to come in overdressed. I try to remember what Gerard was wearing when we had breakfast that morning. Besides his scarlet apron, he was in Power Rangers lounge pants and a t shirt, so he must’ve changed. Since I have no idea what to do, I go to today’s only source, Google.

            I Google what to wear to a Catholic church, and click on one of the first links I see. This one just rambles on about how you should dress nice but without actually defining their idea of “nice”. I skip to another, which says that dress pants and a dress shirt (maybe even with a tie) are good. I haven’t worn anything like that since my vocal and band concerts in high school, so it takes about twenty minutes of closet snorkeling, basement ransacking, and finally a call to my mother, who confirms that I’d left them at home. I run over to pick up my clothes, and I can’t get out of there fast enough because even though I visit about every two weeks, my mom acts like I’m a soldier who’s come home after years of war. She flutters around me like a hummingbird, fixing my hair, inspecting my arms for any new tattoos, and tucking in my shirt. A trip that should’ve been five minutes ended up being thirty, so I race home, since it’s now 8:00 and I have to go to bed early. I try on the slacks, which still fit, but the dress shirt has a button missing. I search for anything else that could substitute it, but my efforts are fruitless. Finally, I go to Gerard’s place, asking, “Do you have a dress shirt I can borrow?”

            Gerard takes me in, handing me a black dress shirt. He asks me what tie I’m wearing, and I answer with,

            “Well, I wasn’t really going to wear one.”

            Gerard looks taken aback, and then explains, “Frank, you need to wear a tie. You can borrow one of mine if you like;

.0-dazx they’re in the bottom drawer of my dresser.”

            I head over and open the bottom drawer, to see stacks and stacks of ties. I ask Gerard, “Why do you have so many ties?”

            Gerard takes a sip of his coffee, answering, “Job interviews, church. And I might be going into education, so, I’ll need a lot for that.”

            “What would you teach?”

            Gerard shrugs. “I’d really like to teach art, but I suppose that vocal would suit me as well.”

            “High school or elementary?” I pursue.

            Gerard considers this, biting his lip. “I dunno. Both have their perks. Although, I bet that I’d want to see more advanced works. Plus, I feel like I could really connect with some high school kids, probably better than I could with kids whose minds and personalities aren’t close to developed.”

            I smile, turning back to the drawer. I rummage through it a bit before pulling out a solid red one. I don’t know how to tie it, so I wrap it around my neck and clumsily fumble with it a bit, experimenting on how to tie it.

            Gerard stands for a moment, pressing and sliding his thumb absently against the rim of his mug as he watches me, a faint grin flickering onto his lips. He sets his mug down, striding over. He takes the tie, and puts it around my neck, instructing, “Like this. This end, the fat one, has to be about a foot farther down than the skinny one.” He demonstrates as he talks, bringing the thicker side down so that it’s at my belt. “Then you bring the fat end around, around, and then, you pull it around the back and through the front of the knot.” Gerard then pulls on the right end sticking from the collar and the skinny part, explaining, “This is how you make it tighter.”

            “Thanks,” I tell. I now realize that Gerard’s hands are still draped against my neck and his face is approximately three inches from mine.

            Gerard withdraws with such abruptness that it seems as if my shoulders were lye and his hands were composed of water. He chuckles lightly, a breathy giggle, and dismisses, “So, I’ll see you tomorrow, Frankie.”

            I raise an eyebrow. “Frankie? Nicknames, huh? This is an interesting development.”

            Gerard’s cheeks go a bit pink, and he replies, “Well, I really don’t give nicknames to that many people, so consider yourself lucky.”

            “I do,” I tell honestly. I realize suddenly, “Does anyone else go to church with you?”

            Gerard shakes his head.

            “You don’t go with your family?” I ask, the sadness in my voice palpable.

            Gerard again gives his head a shake. He shrugs, answering, “It’s nothing to be sad about. Mikey’s my little brother, but he’s an atheist, so, yeah. And my parents and I don’t really speak all that much anymore.”

            “How come?” I add, “I’m not trying to pry or anything, but maybe if you want to talk about it-”

            “I don’t want to,” Gerard cuts in. He laughs then, this desperate sound. He nudges me towards the door subtly as he says, “Goodbye Frank, see you tomorrow. I’ll pick you up.”

            “Okay,” I mutter, stuffing my hands into my pockets. I leave, my shoes scuffing against the cheap carpet. As soon as I get outside, I’m searching my pockets for a lighter, because I’ve only been friends with this guy for like a week, and I’m already stressing. What happened with his family? Will he tell me? Does that mean he doesn’t trust me, or is it just so terrible that he cannot bear to utter a word of it?

            Small particles of my cigarette spark off and float to the ground. I watch them, their orange hue contrasting against the ashy grey sky. By the time I get to my car, the cigarette is all gone. The cigarette calmed me down to the point I hardly felt stress, and yet, I flick its butt onto the ground and end up running it over.       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please comment, and leave a kudos if you enjoyed it! I'll try to update soon, so in the meantime, check out my new fic Best Friends Forever here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1414396
> 
> My tumblr: www.varsity-frank.tumblr.com


	5. Chapter 5

Gerard picks me up bright and early the next morning, dressed in his Sunday best. He’s wearing black slacks with a baby blue dress shirt and a navy tie. I hop into the car, complimenting,

            “You look nice.”

            “You think so?” Gerard asks. “I usually wear a suit.” He fusses with his hair, complaining, “My hair looks rachet. So many split ends.” He combs his fingers through it, and then gives up, sighing, “I guess its fine.”

            I chuckle, and glance out the window on the ride there.

            We’re one of the first groups there; only old people are praying when we arrive. Gerard kneels next to the pew, does something random with his hand, and then sits. I kneel as well, but don’t know what to do with my hands, so I just sit without it.

            Gerard joins into the prayer, somehow knowing all of the words. I can’t imagine memorizing a prayer like that; it doesn’t even rhyme.

            Eventually, the church fills up, and this guy comes in and sits at the piano, calling,

            “Page 632 of the hymns, ‘May Christ Be With Thee.’”

            Gerard picks a thick book from the holder, flipping through it until he reaches the right page. I listen to him sing as I watch who can only be the priest enter. He parades gracefully up the main aisle, two kids in white robes on his tail. God, this is weird. The kids go sit down at the front of the church, off to the side, and the priest begins to sing along with everyone else.

            Once the song is over, there are some exchanges between the priest and the churchgoers, whom all answer in unison. More memory games. Then everyone sits, so I follow their example. Gerard opens another book, setting it in his lap and leaning towards me so that I can read as well.

            There seems to be a set way that every mass goes, which I find to be very boring. There’s excerpts from the Bible, Gerard explains in a hushed tone, and then some from the Gospel as well.

            There’s a lot of standing, kneeling, and sitting. I have to constantly keep an eye on Gerard just to catch up. But by far, the strangest thing is what Gerard calls Communion.

            Everyone, children, the elderly, adults, they all get in line to reach the priest. Once they get there, he says something to them, puts this bread in their hand, which they eat, and then the people leave, some drinking from this fancy looking goblet, and others not. When the young children go up, they don’t do any of this, but the priest puts his hand on their forehead and tells them something. I don’t know if it’s a compliment, a blessing, or just some standard phrase (which seems to constitute most of the mass). Gerard does this, standing to get in line. I begin to follow, but Gerard touches my arm, pushing me back gently to a sitting position.

            “You haven’t had Communion yet,” he whispers. “Wait here.”

            I nod, and watch as he goes up and goes through the same weird ritual that the rest do. He doesn’t drink whatever’s in the cup, which is odd, since about half of the adults do.

            When he returns, I hum in his ear, “What was all of that?”

            “The bread is the body of Christ, and the wine is the blood,” Gerard replies.

            I scrunch my nose. “Ew, man. That’s kind of gross.”

            Gerard giggles quietly, adding, “Well, it’s figurative.”

            “How come the little kids don’t do it?” I ask.

            Gerard answers, “They haven’t had their first Communion yet, which is this big event that happens when they’re seven or eight. Or older; if they aren’t a Catholic until an older age.”

            I want to ask him more, just because I still can’t grasp the concept or purpose of this so called Communion, but the priest interrupts me. He goes on about the church’s upcoming events, and then tells us we’re dismissed. I gather my coat, and am about to stand when Gerard yanks me down by the arm. He stands, but stays in place, and the closing song is announced. I blush, realizing that you’re not supposed to go until the final song is sung. Catholic churches seem like a whole mess of rules, which I’ve never been a fan of.

            We leave, and the priest stands outside, shaking everyone’s hand. Gerard shakes his hand, greeting,

            “How are you, father?”

            “I’m fine, thank you,” he replies.

            I try to dodge the handshake, but denying the priest’s outstretched hand is too rude, so I give him a quick shake and a nod before jogging to catch up with Gerard.

            “Is he your dad?” I ask, motioning back at the priest.

            Gerard knits his brows. “What makes you ask that?”

            “You called him father,” I point out.

            Gerard guffaws, and shakes his head, responding, “No; father is his title. He’s everyone’s father, basically. But biologically, not quite.”

            I redden, apologizing, “My bad. I’m still getting used to all of this stuff.”

            “Don’t apologize,” Gerard says, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He nudges me, telling, “Hey, it’s almost time for lunch. Want to grab something to eat? There’s a diner not too far away.”

            “Sure,” I agree. I get into his car, and watch the road as we pull out and start off towards the restaurant.

            We arrive, and I end up convincing myself that, ‘No, Frank, this is not a date. Don’t be stupid.’

            We eat at the diner, and it’s slightly uncomfortable for me. Gerard is oblivious, cracking jokes and going on and on about school. He wants to be an art teacher at a high school, or maybe even a university. He tells me that he hasn’t decided yet; but he’s leaning towards the high schoolers, because he feels like they’re the people in the world who need the most help with anything; that they go through the hardest times and endeavor the worst heartbreaks.

            I listen, but don’t speak, focusing on my plate. I feel guilty; guilty for lying to Gerard. I’m… I’m in love with him. I’ve known it practically ever since we started hanging out, and yet, I didn’t tell him. He’s a man of God, and I’m a lustful sinner. I know that if given the chance, I’d tie Gerard up and just do the most unimaginable things to the boy.

            He looks right through me, his eyes piercing. For a moment, I’m legitimately fearful that he can read my thoughts. But he doesn’t acknowledge my attraction, just asks what I want to be.

            And I don’t quite have an answer for him.

           

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> Thanks so much for reading! Please comment, and leave a kudos if you enjoyed it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please comment, and leave a kudos if you enjoyed it! I'll try to update soon. 
> 
> My tumblr: www.varsity-frank.tumblr.com


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